It’s time to talk, Clare decided. And so she picked up the phone and dialed Ray.
“And what the hell comes next?” I ask aloud as I finish typing the line. I’m frustrated, because I can’t seem to bring this story to a neat and tidy conclusion, despite weeks of work and rework. And I’m only more irritated when my eye alights on the Rilke quote taped to my monitor, it once again reminding me to Learn to love the questions themselves.
“Enough with the questions! Let’s have some answers. I want closure here!”
Here’s the back story: My protagonist, writer Clare, and scientist Ray meet and fall madly into . . . something. Within a few short months, the relationship, despite its strong affinities and attractions, hits a wall of ambivalence with the question: “Where is this going?” Out of a need for decisive action, perhaps, and out of the blue, Ray dumps Clare by letter, telling her that while he cares for her very much, he’s met someone else and hopes that he and she can be friends. Clare, stunned, never responds.
Months pass, and as time mends Clare’s broken heart, she discovers that some key changes in her life have, in fact, been catalyzed by her brief but significant relationship with Ray. Channeling into her writing energies awakened by their playfulness, mental fireworks and hot sex, Clare finds her voice and an audience and growing success. Clare’s appreciation for the outcomes of good and growth, along with her preference for conciliatory if not happy endings (most of her exes, including her ex-husband, are friends), lead her increasingly to think of trying a friendship with Ray. Which creates her internal conflict: Can she reopen this connection and authentically show up as herself and as a friend to Ray? Or is it better for everyone, including Clare, to leave things alone?
Clare doesn’t know the answers to these questions. I don’t know the answers to these questions. And here I won’t lie: Some of the stories I’m writing borrow pretty heavily from my own experiences. Like this one, which is pretty much about me and Doc.
But I don’t have to have the answers at this moment; right now I’m saved by the bell. My alarm clock has gone off, and it’s time to meet Art for coffee (or, in Art’s case, tea or water). I figure I’ll run some thoughts by him, and Art will be the breath of fresh, pragmatic air to clear some of the confusion. Art’s a man of few – but well-considered – words. It will be good to talk.
I pull into the parking lot at my nearby Peet’s where Art is sitting in front of the cafe on a bench, self-contained and alert and looking sporty in his golf gear. He rises as I approach and gives me a hug. “How are ya, Wenchie?”
I hug him back. “Good.”
After procuring mugs of coffee and tea, we find a table.
“So,” I say, “I got news.”
“And?”
“I sold a story to The New Yorker.”
“Good job! Topic?”
“Love. Life. The usual.”
“Fact? Fiction?”
“Fiction. Although, obviously, all fiction is based on fact, since we writers write about what we know – or think we know – best,” I say.
“Keeping it real,” says Art. “Believable.”
“Yes,” I say. “And what’s new with you?”
“Gwen and I are engaged,” says Art.
“Wow! Art!” I’m surprised and delighted for him. “Talk about keeping it real! Congratulations!”
I know that Art and Gwen have been seeing each other seriously for a while, and I knew there was talk of marriage someday when the kids were grown. It seems that someday has come, and quickly.
“You’ve been together now, what, two or three years?” I ask.
“Eight,” says Art.
“Eight? Geez, I didn’t realize that. I guess I don’t really know the story of you and Gwen. I have questions. Do you mind?” Art shakes his head. “How did you meet? Was it love at first sight? And pardon me for sounding rude, but why did it take you guys eight years to get engaged?”
“Actually, it’s a pretty good story,” says Art.
“Go!” I say.
“Well. I first met Gwen on match.com. We emailed and spoke on the phone, and by the time I met her in person, I knew I liked her. But things were complicated.” Art looks a little sheepish. “I was kind of in a relationship; she was in a trial separation. We liked each other, and we had a few lunch dates over a few weeks, but then we decided that we each needed to take care of a few things. Put our respective houses in order.”
So two years passed. Gwen kept working at her marriage, and Art continued dating and had a couple more short-term relationships and a number of what he’s only willing to describe as “interesting” match.com experiences. “The Internet dating game is seductive,” he says. “There’s always another possibility, and you can distract yourself chasing after that, building up projections and fantasies and expectations. Pretty soon it almost doesn’t matter how great the real person is when you find her and have a connection – you keep thinking that there might be someone even better out there. It’s a common trap for guys.”
“Sheesh,” I say. “You men are sluts.”
“Not pretty but true, in my experience,” says Art. “And it’s something for you to be aware of, since I know you’re in the dating game these days.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it under advisement.”
During those two years, Art and Gwen kept in touch, and when Gwen officially separated, moving out of the family home, the two began dating again. They broke things off a second time when Gwen’s husband made a last stand and persuaded her to move back in and give things another shot. (Proving that the path to true love never did run smooth, I point out.) Art took himself out of the picture so that she could make her choice, free and clear. (“Hard?” I ask. “Yes, very,” Art answers.) After more marital issues surfaced, Gwen decided on divorce, and shortly thereafter, Art and Gwen got together. Three was the charm and this time it was for good.
“So that was about three years ago,” I count off fingers. “When did you know Gwen was The One? And how did you propose?”
“I knew I wanted to be with her for a long time after we’d spent a good year together – about four years after we first met,” says Art. “But I didn’t propose. Gwen proposed to me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says. “I knew she was skittish and couldn’t begin to think in terms of marriage after all she’d been through. So, a couple of years ago, I gave her a diamond necklace and said, ‘Here you go. I want to marry you, and I know you’re not ready for me to ask you. So I’m giving you this diamond, and when you are ready, you ask me. Take the diamond, have a ring made with it, and then put it on your hand and let me know.’ ”
And so it was that one spring day in March of this year, eight years to the date after their first meeting, Gwen and Art met for lunch once again, at the same restaurant. They sat outside in the little courtyard, at the same table where they sat on their first date, and they lunched beneath the flowering pear trees, the white petals falling gently over them, carried on the warming breezes. They recalled their first meeting, reminiscing about one another as they were that day, and they spoke of the adventures and changes of the ensuing years, and of the history they now shared.
They talked and they laughed and they rested in companionable silences, and over coffee (and tea), Gwen reached across the table and took Art’s two hands in her own. And it was then that Art saw the flash of the diamond ring. He fell silent as Gwen’s eyes met his, and he leaned toward her to hear her ask him, softly, she quoting Rocky from one of Art’s favorite movies, “What do you think you’re doing for the next 40 or 50 years? ‘Cause I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind marrying me very much.” And Gwen held her breath until she heard Art say “I wouldn’t mind.”
Art and I sit in silence after he finishes his story. I sniff and he hands me a napkin. “It’s a good story, huh?” he smiles at me.
“It’s a GREAT story,” I say, blowing my nose. “A love story of patience and tenderness. A sweet story. Thank you for telling it.”
“It’s a story of what I call ‘opensure,’ “ says Art. “Different than closure. It’s about keeping doors open and letting things happen as they will.”
“Opensure,” I nod. “I like that.”
We linger a little longer, catching each other up on the kids and our jobs, and then we rise to clear our mugs and head back to work.
“Some thoughts for you,” Art says, patting my shoulder just before we part company. “In real life, you don’t have to have all the answers, Wenchie girl. And you can let things happen in their own time. Everyone has a story, and they’re all works in progress.”
I give Art a quick hug. “Thank you,” I say. “Very good things to remember.”
Later, back home at my keyboard, I still don’t know what the hell comes next. But it’s time to talk, I decide. And so I pick up the phone and dial Doc.
The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail
Tags: Fictional Memoir, love, Personal, relationship, romance, slice of life, Word Wench
